


Symbols

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: A Law to Lovers [3]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Ragnar, Frottage, Fuck Canon, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Symbolism, Top!Athelstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: Because Athelstan DID NOT DIE, he is with Ragnar when they arrive outside Paris. There is some scouting and some sex and, because this is Athelnar, some beautiful emotional stuff.





	Symbols

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after S3 Ep 6 in a world that really doesn’t have much to do with canon anymore, other than sticking with Ragnar, et al., heading for Paris.
> 
> Not sure how much sense this will make without reading the previous 2 in the series, but seriously, none of these are terribly long, so it’s probably best to read them in order.
> 
> Also, I know these fics aren't textbook SoC, but close enough I've decided to just keep running with that tag.
> 
> Still don’t own these folks, in case someone is looking for something to buy me for Christmas.

**By Vera d'Auriac**

Athelstan adjusts his arm ring, turning the opening to the underside of his wrist where he can feel the beating of his heart. The arm ring feels so right there he questions how he ever removed it. He is Ragnar’s—heart, soul, mind, body, utterly and completely, both sleeping and awake. The world knows this. Hiding it would never occur to Athelstan. The fact it once occurred to him that he might be able to live another way now strikes him as impossible. He will never leave Ragnar’s side again, and that is why even under the frightening gaze of Floki, Athelstan has come to Paris with Ragnar, and why when more experienced men, like Rollo, said they wished to go with Ragnar to inspect the city, Athelstan has gone instead.

Paris rises from the river, more beautiful than Athelstan remembers. He thinks there are new buildings and the wall higher and more decorated, but perhaps the only difference is that this time he is here with Ragnar. It is something he has noticed over the past months, living with Ragnar—waking with him, spending the day at his side, falling into a tumble of limbs with him at night—the world takes on greater beauty with Ragnar. The sunrise more spectacular, roast lamb sweeter, the lightest touches more thrilling. His world made new. All thanks to the love he shares with Ragnar.

 _It is everything you said and more_.

Since shaving all his hair, Ragnar has taken to running his hand over his scalp and its intricate pattern of blue-green ink. Athelstan finds this beautiful as well, but he does not know why Ragnar has done this. Other Northmen tattoo sacred symbols and designs on all parts of their bodies, but only Ragnar has replaced all his hair with permanent signs. Athelstan wants to know why, but now, pressed together, whispering in the shadow of the grandest city of Athelstan’s imagination, he is more taken by the excitement reflected in Ragnar’s wide, wild eyes. Athelstan’s breath catches at the passion on Ragnar’s face, and to know he made it possible, to claim responsibility for this reaction, fills Athelstan with the desire to always please Ragnar this much and more.

_Can you take it?_

Ragnar’s smile is as sly as ever, and Athelstan smirks back, both never in doubt Ragnar can find a way inside the forbidding walls. The other Northmen probably think they can simply storm the city like they did the towns in England, but it will require cunning to take Paris, and only Ragnar could ever hope to achieve the feat.

_What can I do to help you?_

Ragnar’s smile shifts, becomes feral and hungry. He kisses Athelstan’s wrist just below the arm ring, lingers, touches the symbol of Athelstan’s devotion with his lips. Then Ragnar pounces. He pushes Athelstan atop a spray of ferns, lays his body the length of Athelstan’s, captures his mouth, presses their lips together. And suddenly they are no longer outside Paris, but they are not back in Kattegat, either, or any other place they have been together, Wessex, Lindisfarne, Uppsala. They are hovering somewhere that only exists for them, another world, somewhere between Earth and Heaven where the troubles of Floki and Rollo and Lagertha and the rest cannot touch them.

Ragnar, dexterous and sublime, opens Athelstan’s breeches, but lets his hand go no further until his own laces are open. He takes them both in hand now, whispering praise between Athelstan’s parted lips. Athelstan, who speaks so many languages, forgets every word he has ever heard, answers Ragnar with moans. A part of Athelstan knows life existed before this moment and will continue after, but his only cares are Ragnar’s hand and lips and thigh. He is lost and he never wants to be found unless it is by Ragnar.

 _Find me_.

Athelstan utters the words like a prayer, and they would confuse anyone but Ragnar. Logically, Athelstan has been found—Ragnar has had him in his embrace since the monastery at Lindisfarne, but this request is more, a plea to continue their search for their hearts and identities. Yes, Ragnar always understands, sees Athelstan’s meaning even when the rest of the world wants to have done with the man who is not priest or Northman. Or perhaps even man. All he knows for certain is that he is Athelstan, and Ragnar exalts in his undefined being.

Ragnar finishes them both, sags heavily on top of Athelstan (which he loves, the weight of Ragnar). He wipes them clean and tucks them both away, kisses Athelstan slowly as he relaces them. And when Ragnar at last rolls off Athelstan, revealing once more the blue sky behind Ragnar’s eyes, the towers of the city in place of Ragnar’s throat, they are back in Paris, ejected from their personal world. Will they return there again tonight? Athelstan prays so, his body ever aching for Ragnar, never satisfied, always wanting to have and give more.

_Do you still wear your cross?_

_You know I do_.

Athelstan has tried removing chain and charm, but the absence of the weight is a constant nagging at the back of his mind when he takes it off for even a moment. Ragnar is his All now, but he cannot stop thinking of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost as still being his Something. Does Ragnar sense his reluctance? Like Jehovah, is Ragnar a jealous god? Yes. His mind flashes to Ecbert, Judith, and Ragnar’s silent surveillance of Athelstan when with them. He must remove the cross, once and for all, when they return to camp, put Ragnar’s mind at rest over who is Athelstan’s savior.

Silence for miles as they snake through the undergrowth of a beautiful wood. Ragnar stops when they are close enough to hear voices on the night air and see the shimmering of fires. Athelstan stops at his side, mind searching for what Ragnar desires while they are still Ragnar and Athelstan, not Ragnar and the raiding horde. He does not speak; he only kisses the side of Athelstan’s neck fiercely and continues into camp.

Ragnar does not speak in camp either, at best raising his eyebrows as he passes people before disappearing into the tent they share. Bjorn stops Athelstan before he, too, can vanish within, to ask what his father intends.

 _He has a plan. And he will reveal it to you and to me and everyone else when he sees fit. You know your father_.

Inside Ragnar is already sprawled diagonally across their shared nest of blankets on the ground. Athelstan moves a cushion to beside Ragnar’s head, brushes his fingertips across the mesmerizing scalp. Like Bjorn, he longs to know Ragnar’s mind, but he will sit in silence and wait.

Only Athelstan leaves the tent again that night to bring food to Ragnar. Scowls and suspect looks follow him, only Lagertha speaking to him to ask when Ragnar will talk to them. When Athelstan says he does not know, she begs him to remind Ragnar there are others here who have as much say in the plan of battle as Ragnar, and they can scout Paris as well. Athelstan promises to pass along her words, but he will not, because Ragnar does not need reminding. Ragnar knows the concerns of others, so trivial compared to the thoughts of his mind, and Athelstan must keep Ragnar free from these small troubles.

Ragnar eats without seeing or tasting the food, Athelstan is certain. They do not speak, and once they finish the meal, Ragnar lays his head in Athelstan’s lap. Athelstan traces the ink through stubble and around old scars and divots. Every part of Ragnar’s body offers endless fascination, and Athelstan could make Ragnar’s person his life’s study. He would have Ragnar naked now if he could, so he might study all of him the way he once knew every letter and curve of his favorite manuscript pages. The distraction would prove too much for them both, though, so he contents himself with scalp and cheeks and neck, wondering again what made Ragnar remove his hair, but loving the look of him, bald and fierce and marked.

_Did you like fucking that woman in Wessex?_

The question coming in the calm quiet is almost as startling as the content. Athelstan cannot guess what prompted it, but knows Ragnar desires an honest answer, the truth always what he seeks from Athelstan. And yet, what is the true answer to this question? Athelstan enjoyed Judith, felt a surge of affection and lust when he joined his body with hers, and yet…. And yet. 

_It was nothing like what I have with you_.

Ragnar’s face beams, but his eyes remain closed as Athelstan’s fingers never stop caressing him.

_And fucking Lagertha was not like fucking you, and yet much like fucking you. Do you understand?_

Athelstan does not, as much as he longs to. He wants to be everything to Ragnar—friend, lover, partner—but he still cannot follow the leaps of Ragnar’s mind. He does not want to admit it, wants to continue pretending to be better for Ragnar than he can be in truth.

_Why did you shave your hair?_

Ragnar opens his eyes, and the stormy ocean threatens to drown Athelstan. He would gladly be swept away in the sea of Ragnar, to die with him again and again, only to be reborn in magnificence and love. But the sea turns darker, and Athelstan feels himself being pulled inexorably to the bottom, too weak to fight the pull of this tide.

 _I thought you knew_.

The whispered words are tinged with heartbreak. Athelstan shifts, stretches out beside Ragnar, never stops his caresses. Desperately, he searches Ragnar’s face for answers, a key to translate the message he is missing. Nothing but a resounding sadness crosses Ragnar’s face, and Athelstan senses the tears forming in the back of his throat.

 _I do not understand you tonight. Help me, Ragnar. Help me find you_.

Ragnar rolls on his side, and without thought, Athelstan shifts onto his back so Ragnar might hover above him. Breath held, he aches to find meaning in Ragnar’s face, his movements, his body. But today, ever since he first asked Athelstan about his cross, Ragnar is a book in a language Athelstan does not read. He needs a lexicon of Ragnar Lothbrok before he discovers himself irrevocably lost at sea.

_You still wear your cross._

_Do you want me to remove it? I will take it off and never think of it again if you ask it of me_.

Athelstan is reaching to his neck when Ragnar pins his hands to the ground on either side of his head. Pain creases Ragnar’s face, and Athelstan longs to scream, to beg for Ragnar to tell him what to do to make it right between them again. That is the great miracle of he and Ragnar—despite reason and history, they are not wrong together. How to claw back to rightness, though? Tears fall from the corners of Athelstan’s eyes.

Ragnar leans down, Athelstan thinks heading to kiss his lips, but instead he kisses Athelstan’s wrist by the arm ring, just as before. He rests his head on Athelstan’s forearm, squeezing their hands. His body trembles.

 _You said when you were a monk, you shaved your head because it marked you out_.

Athelstan cannot believe Ragnar remembers this. He only remembers because it was what he told Bjorn the first day Ragnar brought him to his family’s home. He had not thought of the incident in many years, the fragments of memory from his early years after the monastery often tainted with misunderstanding and the growing pains of love not yet established. But now when Athelstan looks at Ragnar, he only desires love and joy and rapture. So he tries to find the love in Ragnar now, in his shaved head.

 _You wanted to be marked out. As mine_.

 _The world sees this._ Ragnar’s lips form a kiss around the arm ring _. And the world knows you are mine._

_You wish to be mine in return._

_I_ am _yours in return_.

Lips and breath and whispers clash in and around them. Ragnar’s desire to belong in every way to Athelstan forms a physical presence in the air, pushing down on their chests. Hands roam, as does Athelstan’s mind. Ragnar has translated but one piece of the mystery, and Athelstan needs to read the entire text if he is to possess Ragnar as they both wish.

Athelstan is a familiar language to Ragnar, and he launches into the necessary translation before Athelstan asks for the grammar.

_Do you want to fuck me? I don’t want you to feel like you gave up something to be with me. Because I can tell—you did like being with that woman, being the one who fucked._

The mechanism slots into place in Athelstan’s mind, and he understands Ragnar, wants him in a new way, needs him immediately. And clothes tear, souls rip, their lives rearrange. Ragnar’s desires not mere submission, but to prove with his body the lengths he will go to in order to bring the same joy to Athelstan’s life that Athelstan always strives to bring to his. The knowledge makes Athelstan yearn, but physical desire is the least of his needs (although it would dwarf the deepest wish of many another man). Athelstan must take the offered gift to join his life with Ragnar more deeply than any sea. The need of taking the joy Ragnar gives because it brings Ragnar joy to bring joy to Athelstan, and around and around in an endless circle, is Athelstan’s world.

Lamb oil and attention have Ragnar prepared for Athelstan, who desperately wants inside Ragnar, because it means so much to Ragnar to admit him. Athelstan tries to roll Ragnar onto his stomach so he might pull him up on hands and knees, make this easier for Ragnar, but Ragnar is resolute. Athelstan climbs between his legs, they peer into one another’s eyes throughout, and he strokes Ragnar’s hips, adjusts him, pushes in.

He wants Ragnar to know the joy he knows, the joy a man can bring to another man. The exquisite pain, the burn, the sudden explosion of pleasure radiating through his body. Athelstan, slowly exposing Ragnar to this, watches each of these sensations cross Ragnar’s face, his expression now an open book in Athelstan’s mother tongue.

Athelstan can barely wait for Ragnar, who pulls Athelstan down by his dangling cross until their lips meet. And there they are again, in their private world where only they exist—their bodies and desires and longings. Athelstan’s vision is blurred, he only breathes what Ragnar gives him, and the air shakes and trembles until they lose themselves in a world consisting of only each other.

Athelstan wonders if Ragnar likes his weight—this is the first thought he can articulate. He prays so, because he cannot move, their bodies melded together by exhaustion and the residue of their love. Muffled sounds of the world that exists with everyone else in it reaches Athelstan’s ears, but he wants nothing more than to blot them all out, if only for a few minutes more.

 _You are right. That is not the same as a woman_.

Athelstan smiles against Ragnar’s neck. He realizes he never touched Ragnar with his hand, but he spent nonetheless. And he loved being over Ragnar, in Ragnar. He no longer needs to worry if he is man or woman enough for Ragnar. Athelstan and Ragnar, Ragnar and Athelstan, interchangeable and eternal, precisely as they are.

When Athelstan at last shifts, knowing he must untangle his body from Ragnar’s, he is stopped by a firm grip on his throat. He finds Ragnar’s icy blue eyes. Ragnar lifts his chin, looks as though he might speak, hesitates.

 _You are still wearing your cross_.

Athelstan can read everything now, bows his head so Ragnar can slip the chain off. The weight is gone, but this time it is a relief to have it gone, nothing lost, the entire world, in fact, gained, all because Ragnar lifts his own head and puts the chain around his neck. And now Athelstan moves, slides from inside Ragnar, adjusts himself so that with fingers entwined, they can settle Athelstan’s cross upon Ragnar’s chest.


End file.
